


Man Next Door

by WinterfellBaby



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Arya/Gendry - Freeform, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff, How Do I Tag, I Don't Even Know, Modern Era, Modern Westeros, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Domestic Violence, Past Joffrey Baratheon/Sansa Stark, Robb/Myrcella - Freeform, Tags Are Hard, Theon/Jeyne - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-12
Updated: 2017-03-17
Packaged: 2018-09-08 00:42:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8823112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WinterfellBaby/pseuds/WinterfellBaby
Summary: Sansa Stark is intrigued—and amazed—by her new next-door neighbor, Sandor Clegane. AN: Story will progress kinda slowly, be very AU, and take place in a "modern Westeros". I'm not entirely comfortable with modern yet, but I couldn't get the concept of this story out of my head. Also, SanSan is the main relationship, with any others being only background/minor.Any and all comments are valued, especially ones concerning what you like and dislike! Hope you enjoy (:





	1. new neighbor

**Author's Note:**

> All characters belong to GRRM. 
> 
> Comments are very much appreciated!

          "Gods, he looks scary," Sansa whispered into her cell phone, blue eyes trained on the man fifteen feet away from her large bay window.  
  
"Does he have an eye patch?" Arya snickered from the speaker, loud and crackly. Sansa rolled her eyes and leaned closer, bumping her nose against the cold glass pane. She was sure he could not see her, covered as she was by the patterned curtains shielding her living room from the world outside.  
  
"No, but...he's got...he's got these ugly burns on his face, Arya," she realized, a rush of pity flooding into her voice, into her head. She wondered how he could have possibly gotten those hideous leathery patches on one half of his face, which was not exactly unattractive. She found it handsome, in a rugged, manly, fierce sort of way. His nose was hooked, bent, as if he had been in hundreds of fistfights and won them all with only one small defeat to show. His mouth was puckered in annoyance, probably directed at the man helping him haul his stuff into the vacant house next door. _Well, not so vacant anymore._  
  
"Ooh," her sister sighed into the phone, excitement dripping from her tone heavily," I can't wait to stop by." Arya, with her sharp, uncensored tongue, would surely offend the man. Sansa wasn't so sure if she should let her little sister visit and turn her new neighbor against her for all eternity.  
  
"Doesn't seem like a good idea, you bully." Arya scoffed, but did not refute Sansa's mostly true accusation. "Plus, I've got tons of work to do, work that I cannot possibly hope to finish with you buzzing around me like a fly for a whole weekend," she added, looking around at the piles of blank canvases leaning against the walls of her study, the only room in the house that was not meticulously maintained.  
  
"Ugh, fine," her sister groaned," have it your way then. I promise not to bother you until you finish the work you've had a whole month to do, lazy. Bye!" And with one final jab she was gone, the line went dead and silent. Sansa threw her phone on the big, fluffy, sea green couch that dominated her living room and nudged the curtain aside slowly, watching as the giant man tossed a fifty dollar bill at the small, wiry man who accompanied him. Taking in his strong frame, she wondered what he did for a living.  
  
"Probably a fitness trainer," she thought aloud, fogging up the clear window. The small man jumped into his big truck, a honking vehicle encased in peeling paint, and drove away, watched by both Sansa and her neighbor. After a minute, the man turned and, alarmingly, caught her eye in the sea of beige that was her home's outer wall. She panicked and stared back, frozen in the half-hunched position she was basically stalking him in. She didn't know what she'd expected him to do, but she was surprised, and relieved, when he simply shrugged and disappeared into his new home.  
  
She let herself deflate and release the tension in her body when he didn't come back out.

 

* * *

 

 

          She knew his name now. _Clegane_. Sansa assumed so when he painted it on his mailbox in big, bold, black letters, as if challenging the world itself.

"He looks quite mean, Sansa," Jeyne frowned as she neared the open window that looked directly toward Clegane's backyard, where he was currently digging up dirt and making a mess. Sansa lifted her head from the sketch she was working on to look at her neighbor, and found that his face really wasn't that horrible. He looked more irritated than mean, like he would grudgingly help her rather than shout at her senselessly.  
  
"Eh," she shrugged," he hasn't done anything mean." She lowered her head again and resumed the father light strokes of her charcoal pencil she had been doing until Jayne had so rudely interrupted her.  
  
"Yet," Jayne added, then turned and jumped onto Sansa's bed. She rolled over onto her stomach and snatched a magazine off the bedside table, a tabloid full of gossip and tips on _How to Land Your Dream Man_. "Gods, I live for this junk," she moaned, and then dived into the glossy pages. Sansa couldn't remember where or why she'd bought the trashy literature.  
  
The two women settled into a casual silence, comfortable for both of the lifelong friends, who had been besties since before they were even able to speak. Jeyne's father, an older, affable man, had worked for Sansa's father, Ned Stark, a wealthy landowner, for years before both girls were born. They had bonded since the very beginning, and had been inseparable ever since.  
  
"Sansa," Jeyne broke the silence," Robb told Theon that Joffrey's back in town." Sansa stiffened, but continued sketching. Jeyne sighed and threw the magazine back onto the table she had taken it from. "Hey, you can't avoid him forever. I know you guys didn't end well...but maybe you should give him another chance. You know how much your parents support the match. Hell, everyone does." A drop of sweat, almost unbelievable in the cool temperature of her bedroom, slid down the back of her long neck, still arched over her work.  
  
Sansa didn't know how to placate Jeyne, or her family for that matter. No one knew the truth, no one except Arya, and even then she didn't know the entirety of the abuse. No one had seen him do it, or glimpsed the evidence in the form of blushing bruises or puckered scars.  
  
"Look," she sighed when Jeyne made an impatient noise," I really don't want to talk about him. I don't want anything to do with him, Jeyne. He's horrible and I just want to leave him in the past." Sansa rubbed her throbbing temples, as if it would make the memories go away. He was always there. When she closed her eyes, when she brushed her hair, when she looked at her pretty face in the mirror. _"I like you pretty."_  
  
"Whoa, are you okay?" Sansa felt the bed dip and when she opened her eyes Jeyne was right in front of her, brown eyes big and worried. "I'm sorry. I won't bring him up again," she promised and then wrapped her arms around Sansa's slender frame. She let herself be held for a moment before pulling away and smiling at her best friend.  
  
"I'm good," she lied," the thought of him just stresses me out." That was true. Joffrey Baratheon did indeed stress her out. She thought about telling her everything, every sad, angry detail, until the doorbell rang and the fog over her brain lifted. She loved Jeyne, but she recognized that she would never understand. She had only ever experienced perfect relationships, and she was currently with Theon, cocky, but gentle.  
  
"That's probably the boys," Jeyne rolled her eyes and hauled Sansa off of the bed, disregarding her unfinished art as she dragged her to the front door. When Sansa pulled the door open she was greeted by the sight of her brothers, one natural and one adopted.  
  
"Hey," Sansa smiled and hugged both Robb and Theon. They shoved both of the girls into the living room and began chatting up a storm about the Stark household drama unfolding only a few miles away from Sansa's serene abode.  
  
"She's totally pissed at Arya," Theon laughed and then hooked an arm around Jeyne's tiny waist, almost as small as Sana's. Almost. Robb shook his head as he plopped down onto the big, fat couch.  
  
"How could she let herself get caught?" Sansa groaned and put a hand, porcelain stained with smudges of the charcoal she had been using, to her forehead.  
  
"She just got careless," Robb shrugged, already flipping through the channels on the flat screen hanging from the wall opposite of his lounging body. Theon had begun to rummage through her fridge like a man starved. _They need to learn their manners again._  
  
"And did she catch them...doing it?" Jeyne asked, cheeks red as the lipstick on her lips. Sansa couldn't imagine Arya still breathing if their mother had actually caught her in the act with her unapproved boyfriend.  
  
"Ew, no." Theon called from the small kitchen, head lodged inside the cabinet Sansa kept her most deliciously sinful snacks in. _Darn, I need to change it again._  
  
"She caught them when he was trying to sneak out of her window," Robb explained, eyes glued to the tennis match unfolding on the plasma's large screen. "She's grounded indefinitely, as is right." Sansa grabbed a roll of newspaper on the end table and swatted him atop the head.  
  
"Why didn't you defend her, you hypocrite?" Sansa couldn't even recall the number of girls that had warmed Robb's bed right underneath her parents' noses. Robb pushed her hands away, eyes squinted.  
  
"Because she's our little sister!" He cried. Sansa went for his head again, ignoring the sound of boxes crashing to the floor in the kitchen. "Fine! Fine! I'll tell mom to lay off a bit," he caved, crossing his arms above his head to fend off Sansa's relentless assault.  
  
"Hey, Sansa," Theon called from the kitchen," I think I made a mess." Sansa dropped the newspaper and let out a breath as a grumbling Jeyne went into the kitchen to help clean up Theon's mistake.  
  
"Pick it up, stupid!" she called back and then flopped down next to Robb. After a suspiciously long amount of time, which led Sansa to believe that the couple was defiling her kitchen counters, she turned to her brother.  
  
"Why is Mother so against Arya's boyfriend? I mean, he's not a criminal." Robb grasped the remote controll and lowered the volume of the match before turning to Sansa.  
  
"He's some mechanic like ten years older than her," Robb grimaced. "From Flea Bottom, Sansa. Flea Bottom!"  Sansa narrowed her eyes at the brother, the biggest hypocrite of the month.  
  
"As far as I know, Myrcella isn't your age." She poked him, knowing that the age gap between the two was almost as big as the one between Arya and the guy she was dating, a not-so-wealthy mechanic named Gendry. Sometimes, it bothered her that her older brother was dating her ex-fiancé's little sister, but Myrcella was sweet and bubbly, and nothing like the monster she endured.  
  
"Ugh," Robb groaned, turning away," stop being so right all the time." Sansa smiled for the rest of the match, until Theon and Jeyne came sneaking in like a pair of horny rats.  
  
They continued watching the television for a while, and only exited Sansa's house when the sun left the sky and the moon came out for its shift. Sansa hugged herself as the trio pulled out of her driveway, narrowly avoiding the car of the lady across the street, a middle-aged high school English teacher who was always cranky, to her slight disappointment.  
  
When she turned on her heel to enter again, she caught sight of the man, Clegane, staring at her tall form from behind a plain curtain, unabashed. She stared back, just as unashamed as he, and when he showed no signs of backing down, waved a small hand in his direction and slipped into her home.  
  
  



	2. rich kid

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the kind comments on the first chapter! Here's another. Happy New Years to all :)
> 
> Also, would anyone be willing to beta read for me?

 

 

          The redhead's cutesy gardening gloves were covered in crumbling soil and a few strands of the lush grass surrounding her garden, a prim little corner of her backyard flush against the fence that divided his property from hers.   
  
Sandor had been watching her for a few minutes, as he did every day at the exact same hour, when she would exit her home humming and dressed like a suburban mother who owned several awards for some prize vegetable or another. Then, she would get on her knees and dig into the deep brown soil where her flowers, which were as bright as her hair, were blooming. Sandor concluded that she was an above average gardener with not many mistakes in her form. That day though, when she brought out the wrong fertilizer once again, he could no longer hold his peace.    
  
"You're using the wrong one," he grunted, a foot away from the wooden fence that reached only to his waist. The woman was startled, he could tell, by the way she jumped and accidentally threw up a clump of earth in the air, but she smiled readily and prettily at his unexpected approach.    
  
"Oh," she looked down at the pail she had gathered it in and placed beside her when she kneeled down," I would have never known!" She looked back at him and wiped her flannel sleeve across her forehead, dirtying it rather than cleaning whatever she had aimed to remove from its alabaster skin. Her smile was fiercer than the bright summer sun, and it made Sandor regret ever having left the safety of his new home to correct her.   


"Well...now you do." He flashed her a small, awkward smile and turned back to the back door of his home, two wooden boards with glass panes all over joined together in an absurd display of appearance over functionality that he had yet to replace, but then she was speaking again and he felt obliged to turn back once more.   
  
"I'm Sansa, by the way," she tucked a lock of her auburn hair behind a small ear, also soiling its glossy surface with dirt. "I'd been meaning to stop by and say hi or something, but then you caught me being a creep and I felt too embarrassed to say anything after that and now since you're out here I figured I would-" she stopped her blabbering when he held up a large hand.    
  
"That's enough," he groaned. She blinked, pink lips parted in absolute surprise, and Sandor knew then that she had never been silenced or rejected, that she had never once been snubbed, and who would snub the pretty girl with big, blue eyes and a waterfall of copper hair that curled just slightly? _Someone with some sense,_ he thought to himself bitterly, and turned around again in an attempt to escape the redhead's attentions.    
  
"I'm sorry!" she blurted out to his back, so he turned. Again. "If...if it really bothered you, I'm sorry. I just can't help being nosy," she ended the sentence with a sloppy, sheepish smile, and although her natural curiosity had not wounded him or creeped him out as much as the woman thought, he felt compelled to pardon her for her nonexistent crime.    
  
"Don't worry about it," he rasped, in the gruff voice he had hauled around with him ever since he was a child, and placed his hands atop the white fence, a picturesque structure that fit the image of the woman who would not leave him alone. Her smile, already luminous, softened, relaxed, turned into something ten times more pretty.    
  
"That makes me feel better. I was so worried you were scared or angry. You tend to look angry, did you know?" she chirped, like a little bird that did not know when to stop its song. "Actually, it's more like as if you're annoyed..." she let her sentence end languidly when she noticed the way his brow was sagging lower over his charcoal eyes, which squinted at her in both amusement and vexation. The redhead was nervous around him, Sandor could tell, by the way she plowed on tactlessly and awkwardly. He, also a tad bit creepily, had watched her from afar, had seen her interact smoothly with other neighbors and the young, attractive persons that would enter her home and come out hours later to be seen off. He liked how she would stand on the porch, like a sort of beacon, until the car they had arrived in was down the street and gone from sight. His cell phone, still tucked into his living room couch, rang from inside.    
  
"That's probably because I am," he grimaced. "There's too many cunts in the world." And with that he left the fence and climbed the steps to the deck quickly and only turned when his hand was firmly on the doorknob of the wide, nearly transparent backdoor. The woman, Sansa, was puzzled, head cocked to the side like a doe in the woods, large eyes unfocused. He gave a small, sarcastic wave and dived for the phone, which was still screaming, shrill and loud. He released a soft, hissing groan when he saw the caller.    
  
One of those cunts, his new client, would not quit ringing him day and night. He, the spoiled little bastard, checked in constantly, asking for updates on the plans for his newest building even when there were none. Sandor's patience was running thin. He turned his phone off and went toward the backdoor with the intention of locking it. Instead, he stopped, contemplated how messed up he was, and peeked through the curtain of the nearest window. Sansa was still there, muttering to herself while she patted the soil down violently.    
  
The woman was a character, Sandor was certain. He hoped she would not pose too much trouble. He thought he might have actually not disliked her.    
  
\-    
  
"Clegane!" It was the cunt, on his porch, first thing in the morning. Sandor blinked at his watch. Well, not so early, he thought. The sun was out and so were some of the neighbors, including the Sansa woman, who was currently sticking something inside her mailbox and reaching for the newspaper roll lying next to said mailbox. She looked pretty even in her pyjamas, Sandor decided.    
  
"Why are you here?" he growled at the shorter man. _He's more like a boy._ He was young, only in his early twenties, and handsome, but incredibly dull and increasingly cruel. Sandor had felt uncomfortable sitting in his office a week or two prior, watching as he forced his assistant, a redhead named Ros, to perform the same action over and over until she did it perfectly, and do odd acts, such as slapping the woman he was dating. It ticked him off more that the Baratheon seemed to not care that Sandor was there. It actually seemed to him that Joffrey liked having a witness as he left bruises on his model girlfriend's arm, or forced his assistant to do it for him.    
  
"I called you yesterday," his green eyes glittered with annoyance," but you didn't answer. I wanted to discuss the a-"    
  
"Nope," Sandor closed the door behind him and stepped out of the dark foyer onto the porch, where he towered over the younger man. "We are no longer discussing. It is my job to create those plans, not yours," he crossed his thick arms over his broad chest, and looked down his hooked nose at Joffrey, who seethed beneath his smooth skin.   
  
"You work for me!" he nearly shrieked, a quiet whistle of frustration, so Sandor grabbed him by the shoulder and pulled him closer. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the readhead look over and her milky skin curdled at the sight of both men.    
  
"I work for your grandfather," he snarled," for your mother," he added, some embarrassment creeping up his back. He resented the woman, resented her beauty and her bitterness and how she had so enchanted him when he had had first been contracted by her father, the Lannister patriarch. Cersei, with her golden curls and summer eyes, had been a marvel to the man who had not even had a kiss by his eighteenth year, and on top of her otherworldly countenance, she had spoken to him, had lured him into her trap, and he remained there for a while, until he realized she had only been using him like all the others. "Don't test me, boy," Sandor grunted as he released him and watched as the man found his balance.    
  
"I'll tell Grandfather then," he sneered, dense and blinded by pride, unseeing as Sandor's vexation out wore his patience. Sandor rubbed at his aching forhead, reminding himself that he could not afford wringing the blond's scrawny neck in broad daylight, while Joffrey pulled out a worn notepad from his back pocket. "Just read it, Clegane," he flicked the book toward the tired man and watched with slight envy as he snatched it up fluently," or I'll tell them that you're not worth paying." He looked so full of himself that Sandor thought he might laugh in his smug, comely face, but he simply nodded and held back the information that he was of much more value to his seniors than he thought.    
  
"Bloody hells," he sighed, leaning against the door behind him,"get the fuck away from me now." Joffrey's thick lips pulled back into a smile, but he gave Sandor a mock salute and turned around to head back to his car anyway. Halfway to his sleek vehicle though, he turned, only a small fraction, and caught the eye of the woman, Sansa, standing stock still in her driveway, shivering in her thin pyjamas even through it was not anywhere near cold outside.    
  
Both of the attractive youths stared at each other like in a movie, and Sandor felt his eyes roll unwillingly at the cliché that he could sense unraveling before him. Sansa, beautiful and lively from his observations, would end up with the jerk whose family he worked for, he predicted. For the world had always worked that way, and why now would it fail? Joffrey broke the stare first, waving at the frozen woman standing beneath the mellow summer sun and almost jogging to the sports car that his grandfather had bought him only a few weeks ago, something Sandor had heard him brag about too many times to count. Then, with a soft purr of his motor, Joffrey was gone, and Sansa was left staring at Sandor's porch, right where Joffrey had been standing only a minute past.    
  
"Weird," Sandor muttered to himself as he slammed the door closed and began to climb back up to his warm, awaiting bed. _It's a Sunday anyway,_ he comforted himself while he snuggled into the sheets, I deserve a little bit of rest.    
  
\-    
  
It was a thud that woke him up, hollow and sinister. He practically rolled off the bed and checked the time on his way to the nearest window. It was past midnight, Tuesday night, and in the house next door, in which the redhead named Sansa lived, there was but a single light on. He looked to the driveway and noticed that there was a massive, familiar vehicle parked haphazardly.    
  
"Bugger them," he growled lowly to himself, thinking of the bright, sunshine woman giving in to Joffrey, who happened to have a girlfriend and cruel tendencies, traits that would normally not make up an ideal bachelor. _I wonder how he won her over,_ he pondered bitterly as he shuffled back to bed. He could not deny he felt a bit jealous of the two, considering how unfair the situation was. Joffrey, horrible and daft, had probably only appealed to her sight, but it was all that mattered if Sandor had to be honest. He knew very well, after all, how one's looks affected the way another treated them.    
  
Just as he was sinking back into sweet, blissful sleep, there came another sound, far more sinister, far more alarming. It was a single, sad, muffled little sob, and it came from the house where the only neighbor Sandor was interested in lived. He was out of bed faster than before, and when he reached for the window he quickly changed his mind and went for the stairs and then the backdoor instead. The night air was sticky and warm, and would have been quite pleasant had he not suspected something horrible was happening within the beige walls of Sansa's home.   
  
He traversed the lawn to get to the pretty white fence, the one which separated the world of Sansa and the one of himself. When he was a foot away from it his bare big toe rammed into a small rock and he cursed the Gods for his luck. He had only wanted sleep, but instead they had casted upon him a maiden in possible distress and a good toe injury. Sandor slung one long leg over the fence, thought it through one more time, and then slung the other one without hesitation. His neighbor, a beautiful, kind, awkward woman, needed his help, and he was not such an ass as to turn his burned cheek the other way.    
  
A tour around the small structure revealed to him that Sansa routinely unfurled her lively, patterned curtains, leaving no window bare to his inspection. He cursed once more before stumbling upon a stream of yellow artificial light, light that emanated from the bulb hanging from the ceiling above Sansa's bed, which she was lying on, right underneath the hard form of Joffrey Baratheon. Her pale, pretty face was turned toward the only open window and her eyes, usually so bright, so focused, were hazy and full of tears. He could not move, not even lift a finger. Joffrey, the little prick, had a hand larger than hers around her throat, though Sandor knew that he was not going for the kill.    
  
"You've been a bad girl, Sansa," he snickered, squeezing the long column beneath his thick fingers, smiling with the disgusting glee that filled him when hurting another. Although Sandor had never been very close the man, he had seen him when he was not yet an adult, had witnessed how his malice toward others only grew with time, only worsened and worsened. Sansa, writhing on the lovely lavender bedsheets, made a noise like a broken whistle as she clawed at his arms, his chest, his golden Lannister skin. Joffrey, though a man, was slender and pretty, shorter than most men and also Sansa, but she was not strong enough to get his unrelenting frame off of her.    
  
"Joffrey, please," she gasped when he let up and gave her a chance to breathe so that his plaything would not perish beneath him. Sandor, now noting something deeper, more familiar in her tone, began to wonder that perhaps Sansa and Joffrey had known each other before that Sunday morning when they stared and stared. Joffrey took his hands from her throat, dragged them down her arms, and held them down as he pressed a hard kiss to the blushing bruises freshly planted on her neck. "Please, please, please," her pleas melted, turned soft and flimsy," oh Gods, just leave me alone. I don't want you," she sobbed, but Joffrey only opened his mouth, taking the flesh into it, giving her a love bite that was fueled by something more akin to hatred.    
  
But by the time Joffrey released the battered, bruised skin to see why Sansa, previously so scared, so full of tears and pleas, had stopped begging him to leave her be, Sandor had already climbed through the window and gotten behind him. Her blue, blue eyes were vivid with hope, with gratitude, and once Joffrey caught on it had been too late. Sandor, well beyond simple fury, clutched the collar of the luxurious dress shirt Joffrey had worn to torment the poor woman and yanked hard enough to make him yelp. 

  
“What in the Hells do you think you're doing, you fucking prick!?” Sandor wanted to sling him clean through the wall, Sandor wanted to hit his head so hard that it would cave and his brains would paint a lovely picture for Sansa. Sandor wanted to transfer all the hurt he had inflicted on Sansa to Joffrey's panicked face.   
  
"Unhand me!" he shrieked as Sandor lifted him higher and Sansa scrambled off of the bed like an alarmed spider. "Unhand me, you-you dog! Unhand me this instant!" his voice rose higher and higher, mimicking Sandor's motion. He complied, sending him into the nearest wall without regard of Sansa's unwilling squeal of distaste. _Right, she's the perfect lady,_ he reminded himself. Sansa scurried toward her nightstand and grasped her cell phone with fingers so white one might have thought she was wearing gloves. Sandor knew what she meant to do, so he held up a hand in her direction.    
  
"Save your time, woman," he warned," he's untouchable. The little bastard will be right back out with a single call of his grandfather," he predicted, and knew that she agreed by the way her eyes flattened with resignation. The corrupt law enforcement would not hold Joffrey, would not serve justice as it was meant to do, not with Tywin Lannister still kicking and his brood lurking just behind. Joffrey, after having regained his feet and wiped the blood flowing from his nose, smiled wide and mean.    
  
"That's right," he gloated," you can't touch me. I'm walking out of here and you'll still be mine," he reached toward Sansa, who had pressed herself against the wall behind her, and gained more joy by the way she flinched. Sandor questioned what their relationship was and how long the abuse had been taking place. It was obvious to him that they shared a history, and even more so that Joffrey cared about her in his own sick, twisted way by the look in his eyes, the desire and the determination. _Hells, he's so fucked up,_ Sandor internally observed and then pushed the younger man toward the exit.    
  
"But you're walking out. Right. This. Bloody. Second," he pushed harder with every word, right until he was out the door, then he turned back to Sansa, who was still trembling, still fuzzy and pale and lost. He had never felt the want to comfort someone, did not truly know what it felt like, but he was sure it was what he desired when he saw her plastered to the wall like a fragile daisy, so different from the woman he saw underneath the luminous summer sun.    
  
"It's alright now," he consoled and tried his best to smile even though it might have disgusted her more. When she stood there, looking slender and small and scared, she reminded him of a small bird, just like she had the day he first heard her high, clear, incessant voice. She nodded back to him, eyes expressing all the gratitude her lips would not, and watched him go.    
  
Outside, he punched Joffrey so hard that when he fell back against his fancy car, he left a nice dent. It was a small consolation, but it made his sleep easier when he was finally back in bed. Sandor decided it would be better to forget the night's events and steer clear of Sansa, who was the last to invade his mind before he was dead to the world.


	3. pillow talk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor can't steer clear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter! I'm sorry for the wait, but school got in the way of anything SanSan. I'm back finally and ready to update regularly. 
> 
> This chapter was beta-read by the lovely LadyMotherClegane, who cleaned it up extremely well :)

"Can we talk?"   
  
Clegane dropped the small shovel in his hand and leaned back on his calves to stare up at Sansa, who was leaning against the white barrier between their backyards. Some of the worn paint was flaking, and transferred onto the stretchy lilac fabric of her pullover. The man grimaced, causing the corners of his mouth to pull down, as he took the discarded shovel in hand and turned back to his unfinished garden work. Sansa sighed and softened against the wood.   
  
"I want to thank you..." she reached for a lock of copper that had fallen over her eyes and tucked it back behind her ear," but I don't even know your name." Her smile was sad and slightly sheepish, however Sandor did not see it. His eyes were glued to the earth he was patting down gently, almost affectionately. "Wow," she laughed, breathy, mocking," I had no idea I didn't exist." Still nothing. He continued to not look at Sansa, although she was practically draped against the fence, desperate to explain, to convince Clegane that she was not a fool, and that she was well aware Joffrey was a mistake that still haunted her.   
  
He'll judge me , she told herself.  She felt certain of it. It was true for most girls who had fallen for the same type of trap she had. Naive girls like her, guilelessly lured into abuse, were often not believed, but rather held accountable for their pain and trauma. It was why she hadn't felt safe telling anyone other than her sister about Joffrey, though now she felt she had no option. She had to tell him everything, she could not let him go about never knowing the truth of the night before.   
  
Just as she opened her mouth to speak once again, the giant man rose to his full height and dusted the palms of his work-soiled hands on the rough jean fabric covering his thighs.   
  
"I won't tell anyone," he sighed, but then the corners of his mouth worked against gravity, lifting up in amusement. "I mean, it’s not as if I have anyone to tell." The comment washed over her and stung just slightly, but the relief soon took a hold of her and the fence was now more than ever useful when her knees were not.   
  
Sansa smiled tightly, and then waved a hand toward her home, silently inviting him over. The man approached the fence, his great height allowing him to climb over it as nimbly as if it wasn’t even there, in an odd repetition of last night's mad dash. She had heard the grass crunching beneath him as he moved around the exterior of her home the night before, and his hurried movements beneath the sound of her own cries and Jeffrey's venomous words slithering over and inside her.   
  
He followed behind her silently and slightly reluctant. She could tell he was by the way he contemplated every step up the notched, wooden planks of her rear porch, and how he paused noticeably before crossing the threshold into her kitchen. Sansa found it a bit ridiculous, considering how he had climbed into her bedroom window only a few hours past.   
  
"I'm sorry for the mess," she apologized lightly, shoving some clutter off of her sofa and sitting down gently. He practically  threw himself down onto the cushions, in complete opposition of the care she put into every elegant move of her slender frame.   
  
"If you think this is messy, then you've never seen true mess," he grumbled, but it no longer put her off. She felt she could tell when he was well and truly annoyed. The low rumble he spoke with now seemed rather casual, but not entirely relaxed. His stiff posture was a clear indication of his unease. Sansa took hold of a nearby pillow, a big, pink, embroidered ball, and pulled it to her chest, then she took a breath and told him her tale.   
  
His face was fixed and cool. The grey eyes that wavered and boiled were the only indication of emotion stirring in him. Through thick words, she could not yet believe what she was saying, she began divulging the secrets she had locked behind the safe wall of her mind where all the bad things went. Amazed no less that it was to Clegane she was confiding in, whose whole life was still a mystery to her.   
  
"And now he's back here," she looked down at her interlocked hands," and my family wants us back together." Clegane, who had slackened against the inviting cushions, sat straight.   
  
"Why in the seven hells would they want that?" he asked, incredulous. She picked at a hangnail. Whenever she was stressed, she would pick at her nails and currently her nails were worse for wear. This made her feel worse, because she had always been taught that appearance was of utmost importance, and here she was, ruining the perfect manicure her mother had nagged her into getting.   
  
"They think he's perfect. He has a unique ability to make lesser informed  people around him believe it. I thought he was my prince charming once," Sansa sighed, wishing that she had not been so wrong in her first impression of him. "He's rich, handsome, powerful…what more could they look for in a good-son?" she asked as Clegane shifted on the couch.   
  
"Perhaps someone who isn't a complete ass would work better?" He sarcastically suggested. Or perhaps he was genuine. Sansa could not tell. For such a sullen man, he tended to take things lightly and carried an unbothered attitude around with him almost always. He was the definition of indifference it seemed, except when he was near her and her twisted life.   
  
"What's your story?" she asked seemingly out of the blue, catching him by surprise. He looked wounded for a split second, then his face was stony and stoic, and finally it settled in vehement vexation. Sansa felt amused thinking of his roulette wheel of facial expressions, but then sobered up, wondering if any of his masks were of happiness.   
  
"What's it matter to you?" he rasped, his voice like stones crushing together, as he lifted himself up from the sofa. Sansa, not caring, reached a hand out and took hold of his forearm.   
  
"I told you mine," she reminded him, big blue eyes pleading up at his turned face. He shook her hand off with ease, making her wonder why he even bothered letting her  hold his arm for longer than was absolutely necessary.   
  
"I didn't ask you to," he countered, with no heat behind it. She faltered. He was right. He had not demanded any explanation, had not asked for any reassurance whatsoever. But still, she wanted to know something, _anything_ about him.   
  
"I don't know anything about you," she nearly whined, and his hard expression softened slightly. Sansa looked at him as he picked at the hem of his thin shirt.   
  
"Fine," he groaned,"you win." So he sat back down and accepted Sansa's pillow when she held it out to him, hugging it to himself loosely much like she had, and told her his name, his ambitions, why he even knew the little monster who would not tire of tormenting her.   
  
"Now," he stood from the sofa a final time, stretching his long, thick torso in the process," it would make my life a whole lot easier if you butted out." Sansa flushed a pretty shade of pink, not knowing if he was serious, if he was truly telling her to get lost. She felt humiliated and slightly sad which succeeded in  making her color an even darker shade. She couldn’t say why she even wanted to butt into his life, except that it that seemed awfully lonely and plain. He smiled a strange smile, all rough and jagged around the edges, but otherwise mild, and saw himself out.   
  
"That was enough action for one day," Sansa breathed to herself when the kitchen door slammed against its wood frame, just as her doorbell rang and the sound of excited voices rushed together outside her front door.  _Gods have mercy._


End file.
